Never Easy
by she-with-the-pen
Summary: There's only one more thing Michael has to do. One more thing before he can marry Samantha. Being with her was easy, effortless. The mission in Dublin will change everything.
1. Prologue

Authors note and** WARNING**: This story starts out more violent and dark than anything else I've posted, just in case anyone's squeamish. No offense is meant to anyone from English or Irish descent, I'm just using the setting mentioned in the show. Also, future chapters will be longer. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy :)

Prologue

Business was drying up in this part of the world. The crackpots in the IRA were usually good for a purchase or twenty, but England's peace negotiations were making everyone very careful. And no shooting meant no money. Well, he was about to remedy that. He opened his trunk and addressed the soldier bound and gagged inside.

"I'm afraid I'll need to borrow a few things," he said, causing the man's eyes to widen.

Ten minutes later, he strode into the Belfast Shopping Centre looking like a legitimate member of the English armed forces. He positioned himself on a second-floor landing with a view of the lower level. A single security camera pointed at him from above the service exit. With black-gloved hands, he pulled first a remote control and then a simple handgun from his pack. A push of the button on the remote control activated a device he had placed in the security camera days ago, shorting it out. He smiled. It would only take one shot, and the IRA would jump back into action. Everyone would think a "British soldier" had shot an innocent civilian. Which reminded him. He snagged his uniform on a door hinge and pulled until it ripped. He knew the specialized fabric would be strong evidence for the police. Finally he picked up the handgun. It was such a crude weapon. Nothing like the new M4 model or the V61 for aim or power. But no one would suspect an arms dealer of using rubbish like this.

The crowd swarmed through the shops and walkways below. It didn't really matter who he hit, and the aim on the pistol probably wouldn't allow him to pick a specific target. Nevertheless…. He pulled the trigger, the excitement rushing through and leaving him almost before it came.

He had hit a young woman. Blood was spattered across her pretty face, more pulsing from the wound in her chest. She would die slowly, painfully. Good. Hearts would bleed across the nation for the beautiful girl who had been cut down before her time. And bullets would fly.

He walked calmly out of the service exit, clipped one end of the rope to the railing, and repelled down. He would drive a safe distance away before killing the soldier in his trunk, make sure it looked like a suicide, and watch as everyone blamed one victim for the other's death.

As the engine revved to life, Claire Glenanne choked on her own blood and slipped away.

* * *

In Prague, a young couple hid in a shabby hotel room, knowing that the police were combing the city for them. The man looked worried and was taking stock of his supplies, packing up a black bag. The woman was brushing soot out of her hair, looking quite nonchalant, even pleased. It was she who broke the silence first.

"Michael, I think we should get married."

There was a serious undertone in Samantha's voice that was rarely present, but when Michael Westen's head whipped around to look at her in astonishment, she wore her customary mysterious grin.

"I…"

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes. I think it is."

And he allowed himself one brief, fierce kiss before saying, "I have an assignment in Dublin. Samantha, I'm sorry—"

"Stop," she said, looking amused. "I'll be right where you left me."

* * *

In the private, government funded jet, Michael did not share news of his engagement, receive a celebratory toast, or indeed give any outward signs that he had just been proposed to. In fact, the only other living souls on the plane were the pilot and a six foot eight sunglass-clad man two rows behind him. And this wasn't the kind of private jet that was stocked with bottles of champagne and other delicacies. Instead, it was loaded down with just about every kind of plastic explosive, semi-automatic, and automatic weapon a spy could wish for. Still, if there was any safe place for a covert operative to let down his guard, it was here, where the decisions lay with someone else for once and enemies were miles below. Contentedly, Michael gave in to the happy buzz in the back of his mind. There couldn't be a more understanding, unique, beautiful, perfect woman in the world for him. What other woman would understand that he left not because he didn't care, but because this job was a part of him and it was the only way he could show the world that he _did_ care.

A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts. "You got everything? 'Cause you're on your own 'till you can hand us Sheehan."

"You've done your job," Michael answered the tall man, indicating the heavy black bag in his hand.

As the jet roared deafeningly, thoughts Samantha were locked behind steadfast gates in his mind. He had a job to do, and thinking about anything else might get him killed. Then he saw the car his handler had reserved for him. Rusting, the windshield already cracked in places, was a 1960 Minnie Cooper. Michael fervently hoped that Sheehan would be easy to find.

**A/N**: Please tell me what you think! I hope to be posting more later on. Thanks for reading :)


	2. Buried, Tricked, Trapped

**A/N:** First things first. I'm sorry it's been a ridiculously long time since I last updated, but I do intend to finish the story as quickly as possible now. Also, for those of you who read the prologue when I fist posted it, I added something quite important about Fiona's story line…sorry!

**Chapter 2: Buried, Tricked, Trapped**

Fiona Glenanne was finding the action of taking air in and out of her lungs difficult. It wanted to be gasped in, hissed out; her eyes wanted to close and stay closed, salt and water streaming from them. She was doing that thing she so rarely did alone, much less in front of people. She was crying. When she looked down into her cupped hand and saw not the damp earth she held, but bright red blood coating it. Again she sucked in cold air and felt it burn her chest. It wasn't her fault. She dropped her handful of dirt into the hole, hearing it thud against the coffin. Not her fault.

The first of Fiona's four brothers stepped forward and dropped his handful of dirt onto Claire's coffin. Fiona wanted to push him aside, stand between her sister and those who would have her hidden under the ground. With the burial clothes hiding the wounds in her chest, Claire hardly looked dead at all, merely sleeping. Fiona had seen her with her own eyes at the service. If she was right there, how could she be gone? But she would die if they buried her, hid her away. She shook her head. Claire was dead, as so many she had known were, sacrificed for their cause.

Fiona was used to living in a house full of boys. Her mother was too much like her, more interested in flamethrowers than cooking ovens, to offer a feminine influence. As for her oldest sister, Brenda, the Glenannes rarely saw her or her new husband. So it had been Fiona, her parents, her four brothers, and Claire. Claire wasn't like Fiona and her mother. She flirted with the boys in their town and spent her money on purses and shoes. She didn't know the difference between a blunderbuss and arquebus rifle. And she had annoyed Fiona because she never quite seemed to understand the importance of what they did. But Claire had looked up to Fiona and that meant everything.

Sean, the brother that cared most for Fiona, noticed that she was stroking the green scarf draped over her plain funeral wear. He didn't recognize it, which was why it was safe for Fiona to take it wherever she went. Items with personal connections weren't safe to keep, but no one knew that this was the scarf Clair had bought when she died. Scarves were just like Claire, stylish, but no thought for the danger of being strangled by the damned things. Fiona didn't care; it was a reminder of what Claire had taught her: your life couldn't be single-mindedly focused on one cause, no matter how deserving it was.

* * *

Sheehan was _not_ an easy man to find. The arms dealer had recently been supplying crime syndicates all along America's east coast and the CIA wanted his head. To make matters worse, Michael had few contacts in Ireland, and he was on bad terms with almost all of them. Currently he was driving down a long country lane under a miserable curtain of rain. He took out his cell phone (cell phone in the singular, because government agencies always insisted on giving him guns and underestimated the usefulness of mobile phones) and dialed his handler's number.

A firm, crisp voice answered. "This is Daniel Siebels, United States Department of Defense. Who am I speaking to?"

"Relax, Dan, it's me." There was no reply; he tried again. "This is Michael Westen, covert operations."

"Your first assignment, Michael?"

"Officially Afghanistan, 1990, but off the books, Russia, 1989. Are you done now?"

"Yes, but is it so much to ask that you use a secure line for once in your life?"

Michael ignored this. Years of training had taught him to control his temper at all costs, to keep a cover even when his quarry said and did things that made him want to shoot everything in sight. But simple annoyance was different. And he was _very_ annoyed with Dan.

"Look, I'm not asking for an Aston Martin here, but why…" He counted for a few seconds in his head. "Are you trying to get me killed Dan?"

"Are you talking about the Mini Cooper?" Dan laughed. "It'll help you blend in."

It was infuriating to hear amusement in the handler's voice. Michael was used to working with whatever he had, be it a sniper rifle or duct tape and a pair of tweezers. What irked him was the fact that Dan could have very easily gotten him something that he didn't constantly have to worry about breaking down.

"I hope you're right about it helping." He clicked the phone shut and continued toward Belfast.

On the southern outskirts of the city, Michael pursued his only concrete lead. Sheehan had used one of his aliases to purchase a small office building. No one had been seen near the place, or at least that was what he heard in the debriefing. Perhaps he would be able to search it undisturbed.

Twenty minutes later, the Mini grinded to a halt a block away from the office building. It wasn't so much the whole building Sheehan had bought as just the corner office. Luckier and luckier; Michael would have that much less to search. He grabbed his set of lock picks and a handgun. The lock was yielding enough, as he expected from civilian security. But it was disappointing, because Sheehan would have added more protection if there was anything of value inside. Then he flipped the light switch and was greeted with the sight of brand new cubicles and a door on the far wall. A door that should not have been there, seeing as the next office over belonged to another company, and the exterior didn't suggest any room in between the offices. Ignoring his curiosity, Michael searched the entire room, finding nothing of interest. So it was to be the door next.

This lock took a little more time, and he was satisfied that something sensitive might be on the other side. He was also aware that there might be more than a lock standing in his way. This room was normal enough, but not empty as the first had been. The desk was large and expensive, with an award plaque and a computer sitting on top. Nothing was hidden, not even a picture he could have used to learn more about the man. There was a painting on the wall, and though Michael didn't think Sheehan would be careless enough to use _this_ spot, he grasped the frame and…stopped immediately. He could feel resistance on the other side, keeping the painting in place.

A quick look at the wall behind showed a mess of wire connecting the painting to enough explosive charges to remove his face. Michael took a deep breath before using his Swiss Army Knife to snip the wires. The triggers were similar to grenade pins, so as long as he didn't pull the wires any farther, he could cut them. When he lifted the painting free after several nerve-wracking minutes, he saw the safe the charges had been protecting. Frank Westen would have hit Michael for the smug look he wore, but Michael was good at cracking safes. He put his ear to the cool metal and listened as he turned the dial. 4… finally he would have something to go off of in his search. 9… If he could find Sheehan he could catch him. Catch him and go home to…5. The safe opened and a wire attached to the inside of the door snapped, pulling out the trigger on a much larger explosive charge.


	3. Awful Understanding

Chapter 3:

Fiona had always attracted attention from the boys in her city, and almost because of this, she dressed in the most industrial, unfeminine clothing she could find. Pretty things didn't help you get a job done. So, anyone who knew Fiona would have seen the difference in her the first night she went back to business after Claire's death. Her heavy boots had been replaced by glittering gold stiletto heels, and instead of the cargo pants and an oversized tee-shirt there was a short, low cut dress. In her hair she wore a bright green scarf like a bandana. No one would have thought that she had shown up at the dock that night to buy explosives. Nor would they have guessed that she had recently lost a sister, unless they noticed the hard, defiant light in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Miss Glenanne" the Libyan arms-dealer called. "You have come alone?"

"Do you think I need anyone else?'

"Miss Glenanne, I did not come all this way to play games. Now have you come alone? Because that man in the grey car seems…especially interested in us."

"I am alone, Kaffir, and if you are not, you probably don't want to sell all that C4 to me, because I'll use it to blow you into the Pacific."

Kaffir looked satisfied at this and took a large suitcase out of his boat. Fiona pulled a brown package out of her purse, the paper concealing stacks of American fifty dollar bills. The Libyan still hadn't noticed that she always kept one hand in her purse. She reached her hand out to make the exchange, but just then the door of the grey car opened and a man pointed a gun at Kaffir.

"United States Navy! Remove any weapons you have and put your hands in the air! Where are the hostages, eh? You hiding them in that boat?"

Kaffir rolled his eyes, because he had never been interested in merchandise that didn't fire. At the same time he pulled two very large guns out of his long coat and pointed one at Fiona, one at the American. "I knew you weren't to be trusted!" he spat.

Fiona ignored him and, cursing, revealed what she had been holding inside her purse.

"Both of you, guns down! I've a dead man's switch, and if either of you shoots me, I won't be able to hold down this little button and stop us all from blowing up."

Now both men were cursing her, but neither was lowering his weapon. Fiona ground her teeth.

"Officer, leave now, before you get hurt." Actually she wanted him to stay put, so that she could grab him by his receding hair and punch him in the gut, but….

Kaffir glared at her. "We can not let him live, he has seen our faces." He took aim.

"No! You can disappear, they'll never find you. I'm the one that has to deal with the fallout. I can handle it. What I can't handle is the feds swarming all over a murder case." Fiona prayed he would listen to her. He looked back and forth between his adversaries before addressing the fed.

"You are outnumbered. Leave now and we won't shoot you."

The fed lowered his weapon and Kaffir threw the suitcase at Fiona's feet and grabbed the package out of her hand. He sprang into his boat and set off, still keeping his eyes on both of them. When he was gone, Fiona let go of the dead man's switch. The fed shouted in alarm until he noticed she was laughing at him. She could have rigged a real bomb, but it was easier to just make them think she had. Her real protection was in the handgun she now held.

"I want to see your ID, soldier," _in case you ever try to come after me _she finished in her head. The man reluctantly pulled off his dog tags and tossed them to her. Silently, they had both recognized that his weapon was feeble and inaccurate, and that his aim would never match hers with the sun blazing in his eyes. Fiona slowly walked towards him, hand on her gun.

"Samuel Axe. Well Mr. Axe, you almost cost me that deal." Fiona aimed a high kick at Sam's torso, but he caught her ankle and tugged her off balance. Her back and head hit the dock painfully, but she could see that he had let his guard down now that she was on the ground. She used her free leg to kick him as hard as she could between the legs. He let go of her ankle as he too fell to the ground and she raced to grab her suitcase of C4 and escape. Unfortunately, Sam had recovered quickly and grabbed a handgun that one of them must have dropped. He shot wildly and she had to withdraw her hand to avoid being hit. The C4 lay forgotten.

He had her, now that he had both of the guns, but without a second thought, she dived into the water. Sam took one step toward the water, then shook his head.

"I do not owe you that much, Jennings." Sam said into his walkie-talkie. "The next time you want me to check out a bogus tip while I've got shore leave, tell me to wear Kevlar. Or a scuba tank." Though it hadn't really been bogus, he thought, picturing the insane woman with the fake dead man's switch and the sharp high heels.

* * *

The explosion shook the whole building, alarms were blaring without cease, and the far wall was on fire. Michael had only had time to duck under the heavy office desk before the charge had exploded and was fairly certain from the pain in his skull that he had a concussion. He had to move, but every time he tried the room lurched. Again he stumbled forward, but slipped and hit the desk. That was when he saw the note taped to the underside of his hiding place. It was addressed to him.

_Michael,_

_If you are reading this, you have doubtless survived the little gift I left for you in the safe. Bravo. They did say they would be sending someone, and you're the best. It wasn't anything personal, but I have things to be doing, and I can't have you on my tail now, can I? _

_Best of luck,_

_A.S._

Michael shoved the note in his pocket and dragged himself upright. He raced through the front door, thinking, if he could just get to the car before anyone responded….

"Hey you! Stop! Police!" yelled a very young beat cop waving his badge around. Michael sped up. Why on earth would he stop for someone who didn't even have a gun? He had a good head start, but now the cop was chasing him.

Michael's adversary might be new to the game, but he was _fast_. He climbed a high fence without hesitation, though the effort made the sky flip sideways for Michael. Finally Michael turned sharply around a corner and stopped. A few seconds later the young cop appeared. Michael stuck out his arm, catching the boy's throat in the crook of his arm. He slung him against the wall hard enough to stun him, though not with his usual strength. Then he took his badge and baton and stumbled toward the rusting sanctuary parked a few blocks away.

* * *

Sean Glenanne couldn't stand himself after a death. Part of him knew he was just good at coping, but the other part was ashamed for being able to go on when his own sister had been murdered. All he could think of at the moment was that Fiona was taking too long picking up the C4, and that he would incinerate her favorite gun if she had decided to use the explosives for some alternative purpose on the way home.

Sean walked out of the abandoned scrap yard where he kept some of the more incriminating product, then jumped aside, because it seemed that a decrepit Minnie Cooper was going to roll right over him. Four feet from his shoes, the car's front tire hit a pothole and stopped.

"What in hell?" Sean pulled a small knife from his belt and went to the car's door. The driver's head was slowly sliding down the steering wheel. Sean opened the door with more confidence and prodded the man's shoulder. Unconscious.

"Well then." For a moment he considered walking away, but he couldn't very well risk that the driver would wake up and go snooping in the scrap yard. He sighed.

"Ewan, get over here!"

* * *

Fiona flounced, sopping wet, into the little house to the sound of her mother screaming at Sean.

"What is it you even use that head of yours for? The next time you…"

Fiona ignored the shouting and sank into a chair._ That was so reckless, thoughtless, _she told herself. But the next moment she was giddy, defiant, itching to run out and do it all again. Her mother bustled into the kitchen without even noticing her, and Sean followed, veins standing out in his neck as he argued. Then he spotted her.

"So you're finally here." He eyed her empty hands. "And where is our purchase exactly?"

"Just because I'm not enough of an idiot to keep plastic explosives in a kitchen doesn't mean I didn't get the job done!"

"Ah, so you _did _get it then? Where is it all?"

Fiona glared. "In a car park."

"And I assume this car park is some new safehouse or armory you've created, seeing as the scrap yard is inadequate."

"Don't you _dare_ Sean," hissed their mother. "Fiona not going to the yard is nothing to what you _did _do there!"

"What?"

There was a thump from the other room. Sean and their mother looked at each other, and Fiona followed them to the sound, still baffled. A stranger was lying facedown on the floor.

"What…" Fiona asked a second time.

"What was your brother thinking bringing _this _into the house?" shrieked Mrs. Glenanne. "I don't know! Maybe you can tell me Fiona, because it's a mystery to me!"

"Oh shut up, the both of you!" Sean glared until both women were silent. "What was I supposed to do exactly? Give him a tour of the scrap yard? Show him those Belgian grenades? Or the new sniper rifle Blain picked up?"

"You didn't have to bring him in the bleeding house!"

"It's not that complicated," said Fiona softly, eyes on a gun leaning against the wall.

Her eyes flashed, because her mother and brother were looking at her with shock, disgust, but mostly a terrible understanding. They had no right. The idea couldn't have been far from their minds.

"Don't," said Fiona, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Sean can drop him at the fire station in Lisburn. Just somewhere more…appropriate." She looked at the gun leaning against the wall again.

Mrs. Glenanne snorted. "Too late."


End file.
